Queen of Books

Left your shit for good
through the clock and to the woods
with a map leading to maps
to take you anywhere but here
thinking you might make yourself the
center of the universe
but I know you know, that I know you know
that I know: it’s not your fault
But if there was a cure
I’d sort it out
take my resentment back
Practicing your craft
as the walls, they change to red
what’s this taste on the tip of your tongue
and bloodstains ‘round your mouth
I can’t help but think how
wrong it was, the touch before you ran away
but all this destructive, unrestricted rage
leaves only the stains
If there was a cure
I’d sort it out
take my resentment back
for you to snap out of it…
It takes some civilized words